When I was a child there were endless games to be played. I spent the majority of my time at the church yard, sitting on the grass hill beside the old school bus in Rowland’s driveway watching the older boys play basketball with an old, netless goal. Days turned into months, years turned into years. I was a scrawny thing as a kid. My feet were too big. My arms too long. My legs too spindly. I could barely get the ball up to the hoop. And finally, one summer day the ball came my way and I picked it up. The boy with his dark brown eyes looked down at me, grin as wide as his face.
“You’re holding that ball like you can play.”
I pursed my lips, enjoying the feel of the warn leather and sleek rubber against my fingertips. By this time, I was almost ten. Every night, I’d sneak up to the church and practice on my own. I’d watched the boys enough that I knew what to do. I could shoot the ball. I could dribble. I cocked my hip out and pitched him back the ball. “If you let me play, I’ll show you.”
The boy smiled and motioned me over. He ruffled my hair as we walked over to the group of boys standing in the middle of the makeshift concrete court. “Check it out. She wants to play.”
All of them groaned, except the boy standing at my side. He pushed me forward and I thought my knees would start knocking. I pulled my ponytail tighter and set my shoulders. I could play. I wouldn’t let them talk me out of it.
“I want to play.” I said, smacking the ball from the boy standing beside me. I dribbled it while I let them debate and finally the boy who had drawn me over said he would sit out. My heart beat nervously, thumping hard against my ribs as we took our places. I stood at the point and the other boy with freckles, the one who was in my class and sat behind me in last year pulling my hair, telling people I had lice, that my mother was really my sister, stood in front of me. He sneered as he bounced the ball hard and it smacked my hands with a sharp sting. I bit my tongue and shoved it back at him. He stood there for the longest time, staring me down before he tossed the ball to his right and ran to his left, shoving my shoulder as he went by. He made me work hard to cover him, running me around in circles until I was blue in the face.
The game went on forever. The sun was hot on my shoulders, baking me like a chocolate chip cookie. Grandma had laid out a red tank top for me and a pair of matching shorts. It was a boy shirt from the Goodwill. The freckled boy had on one that was blue and I felt my heart sink. I saw the look in his eye when he realized we were wearing the same shirt and he opened his mouth to lay into me. “Mama too poor to buy you girl clothes? You want me to just give you this shirt so you don’t have to pay a dime for it?” I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Grandpa had warned me earlier in the summer to stop fighting. Grandma was giving him a headache telling him the devil was alive in me. Grandpa just wanted me to get it all out before I was a teen. Whatever that meant.
“I know why you don’t have any friends.” I paused. I knew this was coming. “You’re not a boy or a girl. You’re a freak!”
And before I knew it, I wheeled back around and walked back to him with one goal in mind. Beating him senseless. “Take it back!” I shouted. “Take that back!”
And he grinned. “Whadya gonna do? Hit me with your little freak hands?"
I balled my little hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. The boys were silent. The freckled boy howled. He pushed me hard and I fell backwards onto the concrete. My hand was covered in his blood and his nose was a waterfall. We stared at each other for the longest time and I got up and launched myself on him. We rolled and punched and kicked and screamed. We fought like that until I could barely lift my arms anymore and the boy who had started this all by bringing me over plucked me off of him by the back of my shorts. “Alright, pip squeak, I think you’ve had enough.” He tossed a look to the freckled kid, “Time for you to go home.”
The boy gave me the stare down until he rounded the corner of the church and the rest of the boys reluctantly took off too. Dusk was approaching; supper would be starting soon for most of them. It was only the boy and me. He regarded me with an amused look for a long time, while I stared at my little bloody hands. I’d glance up at him waiting for him to laugh and say “told you so”. But he didn’t. He walked over to the forgotten basketball and used his foot to kick it up to his hands. “I’ve seen you up here late at night.” He said and I glanced up at him. “I’ve watched you shoot the ball. You’re really getting pretty good.” I blushed. Thank god for blood stains and sunburn because I was already shy and embarrassed to all end.
“I didn’t see you shoot the ball.” He said, handing me the ball. “Why?”
I shrugged a shoulder and lobbed the ball up to the hoop. It went in with a little rattle and bounced back down to me. I bounced it around a little bit and I watched the dust bounce up each time it hit the concrete.
“You didn’t want them to make fun of you, did you?”
I shot a look up at him and shook my hand. I handed him back the ball, ready for this day to be over with. “Thanks.” I told him. “I’m sorry I caused problems.”
He grinned, a boyish lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes. “See you next time.”
But I knew that there wouldn’t be one. Too much trouble. That is until I became a teenager. Then I whooped those boys ass into the dirt with my basketball skills. Except for that boy. He helped me get there.
Just like everything else in my life, there’s always something I wish I would’ve kept up with. Always something left behind in the pursuit of another dream. I loved basketball. I played every waking moment until I fell in “love” with a boy. Then I fell in love with boys in general. Then I fell in love with writing poetry. Then I fell in love with basketball again. Then singing. You get the point.
As a writer, there’s always something needing your attention. But sometimes there is something; waiting in the wings, under a pile of half read books with bookmarks you’ve been looking for months now. Killer dust bunnies have assumed watch over it with tiny pollen infested assault riffles. Each night as you walk by, you slide a longing gaze over it, the feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach at the thought of annihilating the killer dust bunnies and picking it up for the first time in forever. It calls to you in the middle of the night. Not really saying much at all, other than reminding you it’s still there. Waiting anxiously for you to take another chance at it.
And then one day, you sigh. You can’t stand it anymore. It’s driving you literally insane. You pick it up; blow the killer dust bunnies away and flip open the pages. You see faded handwriting, places where the ink has blotted into a big blob. Torn pages where you’ve taken a piece for a quick phone number cuts off an important sentence that you no longer remember what it was leading up to… What I’m talking about is that dreaded partial manuscript. You know, that one you were passionate about for all of a month before you got bored with it and sat it down without another thought. The concept was good. You had passion for what you were writing about, but like all puppy loves, it came in with a fury and went out like a lamb. But all it takes is a little spark to get it going again. Just a thought. A glance. A conversation over dinner. A mood that strikes late at night. So you take out the pen and start writing again, feeling that joy that you once felt for the story line, the characters, the overall feeling of the work. You take joy in your quiet time, alone with your work. And it produces BIG numbers in the word count game. You’re happy. For now. But what keeps you happy? Is it the fact of starting something fresh in your mind? Or is it the joy that you found the first time when writing it? And what keeps you from ditching it again? For me it’s all about progress and staying positive while writing. So if it makes me happy, I do it. And if it doesn’t, well sometimes I just grit my teeth and bear it.
Have you ever ditched a manuscript and came back to it days, weeks, months, years later? Did you ever finish it? What gives you the most joy about reading and/or writing?
“You’re holding that ball like you can play.”
I pursed my lips, enjoying the feel of the warn leather and sleek rubber against my fingertips. By this time, I was almost ten. Every night, I’d sneak up to the church and practice on my own. I’d watched the boys enough that I knew what to do. I could shoot the ball. I could dribble. I cocked my hip out and pitched him back the ball. “If you let me play, I’ll show you.”
The boy smiled and motioned me over. He ruffled my hair as we walked over to the group of boys standing in the middle of the makeshift concrete court. “Check it out. She wants to play.”
All of them groaned, except the boy standing at my side. He pushed me forward and I thought my knees would start knocking. I pulled my ponytail tighter and set my shoulders. I could play. I wouldn’t let them talk me out of it.
“I want to play.” I said, smacking the ball from the boy standing beside me. I dribbled it while I let them debate and finally the boy who had drawn me over said he would sit out. My heart beat nervously, thumping hard against my ribs as we took our places. I stood at the point and the other boy with freckles, the one who was in my class and sat behind me in last year pulling my hair, telling people I had lice, that my mother was really my sister, stood in front of me. He sneered as he bounced the ball hard and it smacked my hands with a sharp sting. I bit my tongue and shoved it back at him. He stood there for the longest time, staring me down before he tossed the ball to his right and ran to his left, shoving my shoulder as he went by. He made me work hard to cover him, running me around in circles until I was blue in the face.
The game went on forever. The sun was hot on my shoulders, baking me like a chocolate chip cookie. Grandma had laid out a red tank top for me and a pair of matching shorts. It was a boy shirt from the Goodwill. The freckled boy had on one that was blue and I felt my heart sink. I saw the look in his eye when he realized we were wearing the same shirt and he opened his mouth to lay into me. “Mama too poor to buy you girl clothes? You want me to just give you this shirt so you don’t have to pay a dime for it?” I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Grandpa had warned me earlier in the summer to stop fighting. Grandma was giving him a headache telling him the devil was alive in me. Grandpa just wanted me to get it all out before I was a teen. Whatever that meant.
“I know why you don’t have any friends.” I paused. I knew this was coming. “You’re not a boy or a girl. You’re a freak!”
And before I knew it, I wheeled back around and walked back to him with one goal in mind. Beating him senseless. “Take it back!” I shouted. “Take that back!”
And he grinned. “Whadya gonna do? Hit me with your little freak hands?"
I balled my little hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. The boys were silent. The freckled boy howled. He pushed me hard and I fell backwards onto the concrete. My hand was covered in his blood and his nose was a waterfall. We stared at each other for the longest time and I got up and launched myself on him. We rolled and punched and kicked and screamed. We fought like that until I could barely lift my arms anymore and the boy who had started this all by bringing me over plucked me off of him by the back of my shorts. “Alright, pip squeak, I think you’ve had enough.” He tossed a look to the freckled kid, “Time for you to go home.”
The boy gave me the stare down until he rounded the corner of the church and the rest of the boys reluctantly took off too. Dusk was approaching; supper would be starting soon for most of them. It was only the boy and me. He regarded me with an amused look for a long time, while I stared at my little bloody hands. I’d glance up at him waiting for him to laugh and say “told you so”. But he didn’t. He walked over to the forgotten basketball and used his foot to kick it up to his hands. “I’ve seen you up here late at night.” He said and I glanced up at him. “I’ve watched you shoot the ball. You’re really getting pretty good.” I blushed. Thank god for blood stains and sunburn because I was already shy and embarrassed to all end.
“I didn’t see you shoot the ball.” He said, handing me the ball. “Why?”
I shrugged a shoulder and lobbed the ball up to the hoop. It went in with a little rattle and bounced back down to me. I bounced it around a little bit and I watched the dust bounce up each time it hit the concrete.
“You didn’t want them to make fun of you, did you?”
I shot a look up at him and shook my hand. I handed him back the ball, ready for this day to be over with. “Thanks.” I told him. “I’m sorry I caused problems.”
He grinned, a boyish lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes. “See you next time.”
But I knew that there wouldn’t be one. Too much trouble. That is until I became a teenager. Then I whooped those boys ass into the dirt with my basketball skills. Except for that boy. He helped me get there.
Just like everything else in my life, there’s always something I wish I would’ve kept up with. Always something left behind in the pursuit of another dream. I loved basketball. I played every waking moment until I fell in “love” with a boy. Then I fell in love with boys in general. Then I fell in love with writing poetry. Then I fell in love with basketball again. Then singing. You get the point.
As a writer, there’s always something needing your attention. But sometimes there is something; waiting in the wings, under a pile of half read books with bookmarks you’ve been looking for months now. Killer dust bunnies have assumed watch over it with tiny pollen infested assault riffles. Each night as you walk by, you slide a longing gaze over it, the feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach at the thought of annihilating the killer dust bunnies and picking it up for the first time in forever. It calls to you in the middle of the night. Not really saying much at all, other than reminding you it’s still there. Waiting anxiously for you to take another chance at it.
And then one day, you sigh. You can’t stand it anymore. It’s driving you literally insane. You pick it up; blow the killer dust bunnies away and flip open the pages. You see faded handwriting, places where the ink has blotted into a big blob. Torn pages where you’ve taken a piece for a quick phone number cuts off an important sentence that you no longer remember what it was leading up to… What I’m talking about is that dreaded partial manuscript. You know, that one you were passionate about for all of a month before you got bored with it and sat it down without another thought. The concept was good. You had passion for what you were writing about, but like all puppy loves, it came in with a fury and went out like a lamb. But all it takes is a little spark to get it going again. Just a thought. A glance. A conversation over dinner. A mood that strikes late at night. So you take out the pen and start writing again, feeling that joy that you once felt for the story line, the characters, the overall feeling of the work. You take joy in your quiet time, alone with your work. And it produces BIG numbers in the word count game. You’re happy. For now. But what keeps you happy? Is it the fact of starting something fresh in your mind? Or is it the joy that you found the first time when writing it? And what keeps you from ditching it again? For me it’s all about progress and staying positive while writing. So if it makes me happy, I do it. And if it doesn’t, well sometimes I just grit my teeth and bear it.
Have you ever ditched a manuscript and came back to it days, weeks, months, years later? Did you ever finish it? What gives you the most joy about reading and/or writing?
